


Mess

by zillsonfire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, First Time, Fluff, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Mystrade is our Division FB Prompts, Post-Coital Cuddling, Romance, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 02:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillsonfire/pseuds/zillsonfire
Summary: Greg and Mycroft share a soft moment in front of the fire.





	Mess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts), [green_violin_bow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/gifts).



> This is my first work of fanfiction, and my first work of fiction. It feels like kind of a big deal for me--I mostly lurk/read, not write, and I'm a little nervous about my debut. Constructive criticism is welcomed, but as it's my first time out I'd ask you to please be gentle in your phrasing. 
> 
> They don't know me, even virtually, but if I dedicated this work to anyone, it would be @mottlemoth and @green_violin_bow, for all the inspiration, especially how they write slow-burn Mystrade-coming-together. Heartfelt thanks to both of you for all the beautiful stories to read.

Greg comes back to himself slowly. The rug is deep and soft beneath his back, and the fire in the hearth beside him is still high enough to provide gentle warmth and light. He takes a deep breath as he feels his heart settle back to a steadier rhythm. He lightly skims his hands over damp, silken skin; the curve of the lower back, the long expanse of waist and ribs, the bulk of the shoulders and upper arms. He turns his head, nudges the cheek beside his until he can reach a soft mouth, and gives it a gentle, lingering kiss. 

This might be the part he loves the most. 

The luxurious feel of relaxed muscles, kiss-swollen lips, and soft skin. Low murmurs. Laughter. Mussed-up hair. The kind of slow, gentle explorations that only seem possible after the first rush of _need, there, yes, NOW_ has been met. Feeling, for a short time, more open, more soft, more real. 

“We didn’t make it to the bed,” he says. 

Mycroft breathes out with a soft huff. “We didn’t even make it to the _sofa_ ,” he replies drily. 

“Mmm.” Greg grins up him and stretches, feeling the sticky wetness between them as he arches his back. “Look at us. Rutting like teenagers. Been a long time since I did it like that.” Mycroft had brought him a glass of whiskey, by the fire. Greg had put the glass on the mantle and kissed him instead. He looks over and sees the crumpled heaps of bespoke menswear scattered on the floor around them--suit jacket, waistcoat, silk tie, a fine cotton shirt that might be missing a few buttons now. “I meant to go slow. Make it last. Impress you with my sexual prowess.” He’d gone to his knees, eased Mycroft’s trousers down. But at the first touch of his tongue, Mycroft had gasped, knees buckling, and Greg had shifted his grip, eased him to the floor, and...well. He lets his hand drift back down Mycroft’s back, lets his fingers trace slow circles at the base of the other man’s spine. He brings his other hand to cup the back of Mycroft’s head, and pulls him in for a kiss. “Next time,” he whispers against his mouth. 

Mycroft shifts. “Greg, we--” 

“Here.” Greg fumbles beside himself and finds his pants. Easing himself to the side, he lays Mycroft on his back and cleans up the both of them. Tossing the garment aside, he lies back down beside him. 

“We should really...” 

Greg tightens the grip at his waist slightly, pulling him in again. “In a minute, love,” he says, his lips moving down the side of his neck, “in a minute.” There’s a mark, still red, on Mycroft’s shoulder. Greg smiles against his skin as kisses it, remembering what prompted him to put it there. 

“Gregory, I--” Mycroft shudders as Greg’s mouth moves over sensitized skin. There’s an uncertain note in his voice. “Honestly. I’m a mess...” 

Greg pulls away slightly and watches as Mycroft pushes himself up on one elbow. Mycroft’s hair, tousled loose from its usual immaculate style into irregular tufts and waves, picks up hints of gold and red from the firelight. Colour flushes high in his cheeks, and on his neck and chest, too, his skin still slightly damp and glowing. The mark on his shoulder stands out boldly, red against white. 

Greg smiles, slowly. “You are,” he agrees. He leans up into Mycroft’s ear, draws the lobe gently between his teeth and whispers, low and deep, “It’s gorgeous.” 

Mycroft goes still. “Now you’re being ridiculous,” he says, a hint of his usual acerbity in his tone. “I--” his voice breaks as Greg’s hand makes a long, slow sweep along his side, around his arse, and up the back of his thigh, swinging his leg over Greg’s hip, bringing them closer again. Greg’s mouth is still moving lazily at his jaw. “I--” Greg’s lips curve as Mycroft’s body softens, moving to meet his touch. “I--” Mycroft’s voice has become barely more than a whisper. Greg releases Mycroft’s lean, runner’s thigh and moves his hand to cradle his face. 

“It is,” he murmurs against his mouth. “It’s gorgeous.” He kisses Mycroft between each statement, his lips open and soft. “ _You’re_ gorgeous. Now, come here for a moment, and let me show you.” 

~*~ 

Mycroft leans against the doorway in the early morning light, with a tea cup steaming in his hand and a dressing gown falling from his shoulders, and surveys the carnage of his living room. Ashes lay cold in the hearth. The remains of two candles sit on the glass coffee table, wicks drowned in guttered wax. There’s an abandoned glass of whiskey on the mantle, and another on a side table. Clothing is strewn everywhere, tossed aside and left to lay as it fell. He can’t think of another time he’s been so careless with his wardrobe. He can’t remember the last time he left an expensive single malt wasted in the glass, either. He can’t bring himself to regret any of it. 

He remembers men who came to his bed, took their pleasure, and left. It had seemed the way of things, then. He remembers being, in turn, the one who swiftly rose, and dressed, and walked away before he could incur any scrutiny; before he could disappoint. 

He remembers a rough whisper in his ear, saying _gorgeous_. 

Mycroft turns his head at a soft stirring from a room down the hallway behind him. The lightening of his expression is too subtle to be noticed by anyone who doesn’t know him well. Or anyone who wouldn’t take the time to look. 

He turns away from the mess and goes to kiss his lover awake.


End file.
